The Admiral
by Sir Gawaine
Summary: Nicholas Blake. Nicholas bloody Blake. It had been a long time since someone played Harry Pearce and got away with it. (Set 9x01)


**A/N – This is another one of those fics that shamelessly fills one of my headcanons. Also from a Harry POV which is rare for me. He is hard to write. **

Nicholas Blake.

_Nicholas bloody Blake._

Ruth drove back from the church, drove his car for him. She hadn't even asked, just took the car keys gently from him when he pulled them from his pocket. Harry wondered if she had seen his hands shaking.

She said very little on the drive back to London and he wondered if she was silent because of his ill-timed proposal or because she was allowing him to process what she had told him.

At the thought of his proposal, his desperate, pathetic proposal, he felt a red flush creeping up his neck and flooding his cheeks. He was stupid. So bloody stupid. He'd proposed at a _funeral_ for the love of God and she had said – she had said that at another time, in another place, she would have said yes. Ruth would have said yes. His Ruth. She loved him and he had proposed at a funeral. He was an idiot.

And then there was Nicholas Blake. Nicholas Blake. The first politician he had allowed himself to trust, to like, for Christ knows how long and the man turned out to be…like that. Well, it had been a long time since someone had played Harry Pearce and got away with it.

He felt Ruth's eyes on him as they neared London and he forced himself to look at her. Her eyes were soft and she had a half smile on her face. He hated and welcomed the pity that she saw there, pity he did not deserve but pity that meant she didn't hate him.

"Would you like to stop, Harry? We could get a cup of tea."

He cleared his throat and nodded. They pulled into an anonymous service station and walked together to the coffee shop that was the only thing still open at that time of night.

After they had their drinks, Ruth excused herself to go to the bathroom and Harry watched listlessly as a queue of similarly tired looking people were handed their steaming styrofoam cups.

Before he even knew what he was doing, his mind had made a decision for him, and he took his phone from his pocket.

It rang seven times before it was picked up.

"Hello?"

"Malcolm? It's me."

"Harry, I thought you might phone. How did it go today?"

"As well as it could have. You picked the perfect poem, as usual."

Malcolm chuckled and then his voice was serious, "You know I would have come, Harry, but Mum-"

"I know," Harry said, feeling an unexpected stinging behind his eyes at the sadness in Malcolm's voice, "I know you would have."

Perhaps there was something in his own voice that he could not detect, because Malcolm allowed the silence to stretch between them before he spoke again.

"What do you need, Harry?"

"I know who is responsible for Ros. I know who it is."

He could hear Malcolm's teeth grind.

"Oh good. What do you need me to do?"

"Do you still have that friend in Vauxhall?"

"I do. Say no more. I'll meet you at the same time, same place."

"Thank you, Malcolm. See you then."

Ruth came back just as he hung up the phone, slipping into her seat at the table and cradling her tea between her hands.

"What did Malcolm want?"

"Just to go for a drink. It's been a while."

His own voice sounded airy and false in his own ears and Ruth looked sceptical, but then Tariq appeared from nowhere and dropped into the spare chair, grinning.

"Where did you come from?" Ruth smiled and Tariq's grin got wider. Typical, of course, that the youngest team member adored her. Harry remembered Danny and Zaf, Sam and Jo and Zoe, who had flocked to Ruth like moths to a flame and found patience and kindness every time. They adored her, without reservation. It didn't make him jealous. At this moment, right now, it made him sad.

"Saw you pull in here," Tariq waved carelessly over his shoulder at Lucas, who was completely oblivious that he was being admired by half a dozen of their fellow patrons, "Lucas is getting the coffee. We followed you James Bond style. He drives like a nut. It was awesome."

Harry let it slide, this time. Tariq was so young, so impossibly young. Harry knew that he must have been like that once but lately, he could not remember it.

It rained the next day, heavy droplets that battered the city and made the usual frantic and faceless pace of London in the day time even more hellish. Harry slipped away from the Grid at lunchtime, collar turned up against the weather, and walked the short distance to _The Admiral_, a dingy dive of a pub that no self-respecting MI5 or MI6 agent ever graced. As was usual at this time of day, it was full of an odd assortment of patrons, old soaks and groups of restless young men who came across from Lambeth and some people that Harry was sure lived there, so permanent a feature were they.

"Marcus," the landlord greeted him. He was an ancient man and much friendlier than the atmosphere of his pub would suggest, "Nice to see you again, boy."

"Nice to see you too, John," Harry smiled, "Is Simon here?"

The old man nodded over the heads of his customers, to a table in a suitably shadowy corner. Malcolm was sat there, staring thoughtfully at a drink.

"Mr Contemplation, as usual," John grinned, "Does he ever stop thinking, your friend?"

"They haven't found a way to stop him yet," Harry said, taking the glass he was offered and handing the old man a twenty pound note. It was too much, of course, for a double whisky, but Harry liked to keep him on side. John wasn't stupid, and Harry knew he and Malcolm were so unlike the other customers that it must be fairly obvious to anyone who cared to look that they were meeting here on purpose, to make sure they didn't run into anyone. So far, the landlord hadn't let them down. It was an arrangement that suited them all just fine.

Malcolm stood to greet him with their customary handshake. The other man was dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, Harry was pleased to see. Once upon a time, Malcolm would never have worn less than a three piece suit to do business in. In the last ten years or so he had abandoned the waistcoats but it was good to see that retirement hadn't changed him so much that he would come to meet Harry in jeans and a sweatshirt.

"Marcus," Malcolm said carefully, "Good to see you."

"And you," Harry replied, pulling out the second chair and sitting down heavily. He didn't bother taking his usual furtive look around the room, because he knew Malcolm would already have done it. His old friend liked to pretend that his years as a desk spook hadn't taught him a little of the ways of field agents, but Harry knew better.

"So who was it?" Malcolm jumped straight to the matter in hand, "Whose fault is it?"

"The only man in the office I have trusted for a long time," Harry leaned forwards and took a sip from his drink, watching Malcolm process the suitably vague description and come to his conclusion. When it came, his eyes widened and there was a sharp intake of breath.

"My goodness. I can see why you're angry."

"I'm furious. I'm so angry that I'm no use to the team until I do something about it."

They both paused to drink and when Harry looked up, Malcolm's blue eyes were piercing.

"You left these, by the way," Malcolm said carelessly, sliding a pair of gloves across the table, "Before I forget."

"Thanks."

Harry took the gloves and felt the outline of the little bottle concealed within them as he slipped them into his pockets. Malcolm had come through. He knew that he would. He just hadn't expected it to be so guiltlessly on Malcolm's part.

"I'm sorry to chew your ear off about this," Harry said, "I know you don't have to be involved anymore."

"I know," his companion replied, "But if I didn't want to hear about it, I would have told you so. You know that."

There was such conviction in Malcolm's voice, even through the lie, that Harry knew he was telling the truth. But then Malcolm had always liked Ros. It made sense really that he would be willing to do this. Somehow, she had always been able to make his old friend smile, even though she didn't know she was doing it. She never knew how much some people enjoyed her company. She never thought she was worth the time.

"I'm going to Scotland for a few days, to get away," Harry said, swallowing the last of his drink, "I might phone you from there, if you still want to hear me complain."

"Of course," Malcolm nodded, taking his cue from Harry and finishing his whisky, "I'll be pleased to hear from you."

They went their separate ways outside the pub, and Harry slipped back onto the Grid to fetch his car keys and his overnight bag. If Lucas and Tariq had noticed he was gone, they didn't show any signs of it. He felt Ruth's eyes on his back when he walked towards his office but for once he ignored her. The little bottle was weighing heavily in his pocket and even more heavily on his mind.

He needed to get this done, quickly and as cleanly as possible. Only then would the ghost of Ros' voice in his head leave him be.

It was time to go to Scotland.

He had an appointment with Nicholas Blake.


End file.
